


A Twitch of the Net

by diabolica



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftercare? Maybe?, Dirty Talk, F/M, Humiliation, Infidelity, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25338622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diabolica/pseuds/diabolica
Summary: We all have our ways of coping.
Relationships: Narcissa Black Malfoy/Severus Snape
Comments: 9
Kudos: 39





	A Twitch of the Net

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [dexstarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexstarr/profile) for beta-reading.

The knock when it comes is so soft he could almost mistake it for the ticking of the chronometer on his bookshelf. Severus opens the door to find Narcissa on his doorstep, as anticipated, darting nervous looks down the narrow street.

"Hello, poppet." He steps back to allow her in. 

"Severus."

He takes her cloak, hangs it on the stand beside the door. Observes as she tries to decide what to do with herself now.

He's accustomed to seeing her in the Manor. In large, well-lit spaces that complement her standing, her status. Now straight-backed as always, she casts her eyes over the frayed fabrics and worn floorboards of this minuscule sitting room. The low ceiling and claustrophobic atmosphere. While she has never said so, he knows how they discomfit her, these surroundings. That's the point. 

He finds he likes that.

"Are we alone?" she asks.

He nods. "Wormtail is safely out for the afternoon. You needn't worry." 

"I'm not worried. I—"

She falls silent when he reaches out, cups her jaw. He runs his thumb over her cheek. "Let’s give you what you came for, shall we? Turn around."

She complies silently, her breathing already ragged. Unsure. He steps closer, his chest now pressed to her back. She trembles enticingly. He leans over her shoulder so that his lips nearly brush her ear. "Robes off, I think," he says, voice low and quiet. 

Her modest robes button up the front, but she waits, makes no move to undo them. The first five buttons undo themselves at his unspoken command, though he has made no move for his wand. A quiet boast, one he knows affects her deeply. She does not raise her hands but allows him to pull her robes down over her shoulders, stopping just below her breasts. Traditional as she is, she wears only her under things beneath. Delicious.

He guides them into the room’s single armchair, seating her on his lap with her arms trapped at her sides by the sleeves of her half-removed robes. Her struggle against this confinement is half-hearted. He inhales the scent of her hair, the perfume on the pulse point just behind her ear. Oak moss and Oudh, a fragrance no ordinary mortal could possibly afford. Now it triggers his basest lust. 

He notes the hitch, the slight upward tick of her chest as the weight and angles of her body settle in his lap as if they belong there, pressing pleasurably against his growing erection. Her head falls back on his shoulder.

She surrenders so easily.

The soft bra she's wearing is easily pushed aside to expose her breasts. He grants her a moment to feel the air cooling on her skin. A moment for her nipples to tighten prettily in anticipation.

He says, "Indeed we are alone, poppet. But just imagine," his voice trails off. She tenses, waits. "Imagine lowly Wormtail returning early, opening that door to discover dignified, well-bred Narcissa Malfoy sat on my lap with her tits out. Whatever would we do in that instance?"

Her answering gasp is gratifying. Her eyes fly open in alarm; he feels her pulse jump. He loves the noises she makes. Stifled, helpless. He can feel himself growing harder still.

He pinches her nipples cruelly, the skin growing hot under his fingertips. Strokes and teases the undersides, testing her sensitivity. He is never more aware of his own rough edges, ragged cuticles, calloused palms, as in these moments when he moves them over her unmarked skin. Her restraint is admirable, but she can hardly help shifting against him, reflexively, inviting him to do more, take everything.

This is what she needs. What, if he is honest, he wants.

The fingers of one hand trace her collarbones, the other tightens on her breast. He remains impassive, drawing out her anxiety, her pleasure and his own, gauging the effect of his breath, and then his teeth, on her neck. He is in no hurry. 

"What shall I do with you today, hmm?" he asks idly. "What does one do with a pureblood witch who is absolutely gagging for it?"

She whimpers but says nothing.

At that moment, a bird swoops in front of the sitting room window, where he has left the curtains undrawn. She starts at the flash of movement, no doubt considering what would meet the eyes of anyone who happened to pass that window now. He has no near neighbours, of course. Spinner's End is largely derelict. But she doesn't know that. Which gives him an idea. 

"I know what to do, poppet. We are going upstairs. Be still," he orders her. She stiffens in his lap. He wraps his arms around her and Apparates them into the front bedroom.

The furniture here is similarly spare as the downstairs, as he spends almost no time at this address. The bed is only slightly larger than monastic in size, but that's not what he's about. What he needs is the window. 

Her breathing is shallow, from arousal or the shock of side-along Apparition. It hardly matters which. Narcissa, still unsteady on her feet, will be hyperaware of her body's sensations now. He releases her, steps back and says, "Show yourself to me."

Hesitant, she shrugs out of her robes and allows them to pool on the floor. Kicks them aside. At his nod, she removes the bra entirely and stands before him in her knickers, her mild eyes downcast and her cheeks beguilingly pink.

"Knickers too, poppet." 

A moment's reluctance and she does as he says. Still she fidgets, starts to lift her hands as if to cover herself and then stops.

"That's better. Now, let me look at you." 

He scrutinises her figure, taking in the lines of her legs. Her cinched waist. He gathers her hair—she has worn it loose—and lays it over her shoulder so that her back is bare. Then he places his hands on her hips and manoeuvres her towards the window.

"Severus?"

Is that a note of panic in her voice? Charming.

"Come now, arms up," he says. A moment later she raises her arms. Stood behind her, he takes her hands in his, spreads them wide and places them on either side of the window frame where she can see the street outside, count the cobblestones if she were so inclined. Where she is framed behind glass, utterly naked.

He knows she is scanning the dark windows of the houses opposite, alert for movement. For curious eyes. Her nipples are nearly brushing the glass, the marks of his fingers still on her skin. 

His hand is on the curve of her arse, caressing downwards. "Does this make you uncomfortable, poppet?"

"Yes," she whispers. 

His hand dips down to stroke between her legs. She's already impossibly slick. A half-suppressed moan escapes her. 

"That's interesting. Because I notice that while you say you feel uncomfortable, your cunt says you are desperately aroused." His fingers slide between her labia, play over her clit. She turns her head to the side, unable to contain the shiver that runs through her. Her hips move, pressing more tightly against his hand. "You see?" he says, lips moving against her temple. _"Desperate._

"I wouldn't worry about the neighbours if I were you," he continues as he undoes his flies and presses his cock against her. He pushes inside. "They have no idea who you are. Even if someone happened by, all they would see is a blonde tart getting proper fucked as she deserves." One hand still on her hip to keep her steady, he reaches around to stroke her clit from the front.

He bites her shoulder. "You do make quite the picture."

"Severus, please."

"Are you ready to come, poppet?"

_"Please."_

He circles her clit with just the pads of his fingers, increasing the pressure as she begins to tighten around his cock. She comes almost silently, head thrown back, muscles taut as she braces herself against the window frame. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Good.” Her legs are shaking.

With both his hands now on her hips, he tells her, "Hands on the window sill, poppet." She bends at the waist, providing an exquisite change in the angle at which he can fuck her now. When she's anchored more securely, he pauses to enjoy the feel of her, all heat and constraint, the ease with which her body accepts him. Then he chases his own release, his vision going white when it comes.

He steps back, his cock slips out of her warmth and he collapses into a sitting position on the bed. She stands upright and stretches, then bends to pick up her robes. He pulls her down beside him, wraps the robes around her shoulders. For a moment they lean back against the wall. She tucks her body neatly against his, her head on his shoulder, her legs folded over his lap. 

Her breathing returns to normal more quickly than his. He can feel when she lifts her head but he keeps his eyes closed, an arm around her. Her lips brush his cheek. Surprised, he turns his face towards her, dips his head, and this time she presses a kiss to his forehead. The backs of her fingers stroke his cheek. This small gesture almost undoes him.

"You did well, Severus." 

He opens his eyes, studying her expression. Her eyes are clear and she is smiling. Little attractive crows' feet and wet, bitten lips. Flushed, glowing cheeks. She is so open, so easy to read that he almost cannot believe she is in earnest. 

Narcissa says, "It's difficult, isn't it? The cruelty of it."

What a ludicrous statement, he thinks. He could argue that, no, the cruelty he has displayed here is deplorably easy for him, after a lifetime of nothing but. Cruelty is what has made him the most feared Professor at Hogwarts, what once made him such a good Death Eater. A moment's easy cruelty is what changed the course of his life. 

She knows none of this, he realises with a shock. She doesn't know Professor Snape, has never seen Severus the Death Eater in action. The Severus she knows is a different man. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He doesn't trust himself to speak.

She nods, as if he she understands. She doesn't, there is no way she can, but—stupidly—he wants to believe her. The depth of how much he wants to believe her tightens his throat. 

"You are not a cruel man, Severus. You've given me what I asked for ... what I—" she breaks off, looks away, suddenly shy. "What I need. Exactly, nothing less."

_"It's my way of ... coping, I suppose," she had said after opening her mind to him. "I know you won't judge." Then she had slid her hand into his, sweetly, as if it were an intimate thing to hand someone a weapon and ask them to use it against you._

Her implication had been clear: With Lucius gone, there is no one else she can turn to. Which proves just how vulnerable she is, how easy it would be to misplace her trust. 

How much she needs his protection.

Her lips purse. "There's a privacy charm on that window, I trust?"

He can't help himself; he chuckles. "There is."

She begins to laugh. He can feel the tension drain out of her. "Right. That's a relief." 

She rests her head on his shoulder again, still shaking with silent mirth. Her hand trails over his still-clothed chest, soothing. She relaxes against him. A moment later she says the last thing he would expect. 

"Thank you."

In reply, he pulls her a bit closer.


End file.
